IF I were writing a tale less true, or were at all accomplished
in the charming art of the story-teller, which has
come to be regarded as but little inferior to that of the poet,
possibly I could have disguised the incidents of the preceding
chapters so as to have checked anticipation. But many
pages back the reader no doubt discovered that the Cû in
which the page took shelter was that of Quetzal'; and now,
while to believe I could, by any arrangement or conceit

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consistent with truth, agreeably surprise a friend, I must admit
that he is a dull witling who failed, at the parting of the
curtain as above given, to recognize the child of the paba, —
Tecetl, to whom, beyond peradventure, the memory of all who
follow me to this point has often returned, in tender
sympathy for the victim of an insanity so strange or — as
the critic must decide — a philosophy so cruel.

Now, however, she glides again into the current of my
story, one of those wingless waifs which we have all at one
time or another seen, and which, if not from heaven, as
their purity and beauty suggest, are, at least, ready to be
wafted there.

I stop to say that, during the months past, as before,
her life had gone sweetly, pleasantly, without ruffle or
labor or care or sickness, or division, even, into hours and
days and nights, — a flowing onward, like time, — an existence
so serenely perfect as not to be a subject of consciousness.
Her occupation was a round of gentle ministrations to
the paba. Her experience was still limited to the chamber,
its contents and expositions. If the philosophy of the venerable
mystic — that ignorance of humanity is happiness — was
correct, then was she happy as mortal can be, for as yet she
had not seen a human being other than himself. Her pleasure
was still to chatter and chirrup with the friendly birds; or
to gather flowers and fashion them into wreaths and garlands
to be offered at the altar of the god to whom she herself had
been so relentlessly devoted; or to lie at rest upon the couch,
and listen to the tinkling voices of the fountain, or join in
their melody. And as I do not know why, in speaking of
her life, I should be silent as to that part which is lost in
slumber, particularly when the allusion will help me illustrate
her matchless innocency of nature, I will say, further,
that sleep came to her as to children, irregularly and
in the midst of play, and waking was followed by no

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interval of heaviness, or brooding over a daily task, or bracing
the soul for a duty. In fact, she was still a child; though not
to be thought dealing with anything seraphic, I will add, that
in the months past she had in height become quite womanly,
while the tone of her voice had gained an equality, and her
figure a fulness, indicative of quick maturity.

Nor had the “World” undergone any change. The universal
exposition on the walls and ceiling remained the
same surpassing marvel of art. At stated periods, workmen
had come, and, through the shaft constructed for the
purpose, like those in deep mines, lifted to the azoteas such
plants and shrubs as showed signs of suffering for the indispensable
sun; but as, on such occasions, others were let down,
and rolled to the vacant places, there was never an abatement
of the garden freshness that prevailed in the chamber. The
noise of the work disturbed the birds, but never Tecetl,
whose spirit during the time was under the mesmeric Will
of the paba.

There was a particular, however, in which the god who
was supposed to have the house in keeping had not been so
gracious. A few days before the page appeared at the door,—
exactness requires me to say the day of the paba's last
interview with Guatamozin, — Mualox came down from the
sanctuary in an unusual state of mind and body. He was
silent and exhausted; his knees tottered, as, with never a
smile or pleasant word, or kiss in reply to the salutation he
received, he went to the couch to lie down. He seemed like
one asleep; yet he did not sleep, but lay with his eyes
fixed vacantly on the ceiling, his hand idly stroking his
beard.

In vain Tecetl plied all her little arts; she sang to him,
caressed him, brought her vases and choicest flowers and
sweetest singing-birds, and asked a thousand questions about
the fair, good Quetzal', — a topic theretofore of never-failing
interest to the holy man.

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She had never known sickness, — so kindly had the god
dealt by her. Her acquaintance with infirmity of any
kind was limited to the fatigue of play, and the weariness
of tending flowers and birds. Her saddest experience had
been to see the latter sicken and die. All her further
knowledge of death was when it came and touched a plant,
withering leaf and bud. To die was the end of such things;
but they — the paba and herself — were not as such: they
were above death; Quetzal' was immortal, and, happy souls!
they were to serve him for ever and ever. Possessed of such
faith, she was not alarmed by the good man's condition; on
the contrary, taking his silence as a wish to be let alone, she
turned and sought her amusements.

And as to his ailment. If there be such a thing as a broken
heart, his was broken. He had lived, as noticed before,
for a single purpose, hope of which had kept him alive, survivor
of a mighty brotherhood. That hope the 'tzin in the
last interview took away with him; and an old man without
a hope is already dead.

Measuring time in the chamber by its upper-world divisions,
noon and night came, and still the paba lay in the dismal
coma. Twice the slave had appeared at the door with the
customary meals. Tecetl heard and answered his signals.
Meantime, — last and heaviest of misfortunes, — the fire
of the temple went out. When the sacred flame was first
kindled is not known; relighted at the end of the last
great cycle of fifty-two years, however, it had burned ever
since, served by the paba. Year after year his steps, ascending
and descending, had grown feebler; now they utterly
failed. “Where is the fire on the old Cû?” asked the night-watchers
of each other. “Dead,” was the answer. “Then
is Mualox dead.”

And still another day like the other; and at its close the
faded hands of the sufferer dropped upon his breast. Many

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times did Tecetl come to the couch, and speak to him, and
call him father, and offer him food and drink, and go away
unnoticed. “He is with Quetzal',” she would say to herself
and the birds. “How the dear god loves him!”

Yet another, the fourth day; still the sleep, now become
a likeness of death. And Tecetl, — she missed his voice,
and the love-look of his great eyes, and his fondnesses of
touch and smile; she missed his presence, also. True, he
was there, but not with her; he was with Quetzal'. Strange
that they should forget her so long! She hovered around
the couch, a little jealous of the god, and disquieted, though
she knew not by what. She was very, very lonesome.

And in that time what suspense would one familiar with
perils have suffered in her situation! If the paba dies,
what will become of her? We know somewhat of the difficulties
of the passages in the Cû. Can she find the way
out alone? The slave will, doubtless, continue to bring food
to the door, so that she may not starve; and at the fountain
she will get drink. Suppose, therefore, the supplies come
for years, and she live so long; how will the solitude affect
her? We know its results upon prisoners accustomed to
society; but that is not her case: she never knew society,
its sweets or sorrows. With her the human life of the great
outside world is not a thing of conjecture, or of dreams,
hopes, and fears, as the future life with a Christian;
she does not even know there is such a state of being.
Changes will take place in the chamber; the birds and
plants, all of life there besides herself, will die; the body
of the good man, through sickening stages of decay, will return
to the dust, leaving a ghastly skeleton on the couch.
Consequently, hers will come to be a solitude without relief,
without amusement or occupation or society, and with but
few memories, and nothing to rest a hope upon. Can a
mind support itself, any more than a body? In other words,

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if Mualox dies, how long until she becomes what it were
charity to kill? Ah, never mortal more dependent or more
terribly threatened! Yet she saw neither the cloud nor
its shadow, but followed her pastimes as usual, and sang her
little songs, and slept when tired, — a simple-hearted child.

I am not an abstractionist; and the reader, whom I charitably
take to be what I am in that respect, has reason to be
thankful; for the thought of this girl, so strangely educated,—
if the word may be so applied, — this pretty plaything
of a fortune so eccentric, opens the gates of many a misty
field of metaphysics. But I pass them by, and, following
the lead of my story, proceed to say that, in the evening of
the fourth day of the paba's sickness, the bell, as usual, announced
the last meal at the door of the chamber. Tecetl
went to the couch, and, putting her arms around the sleeper's
neck, tried to wake him; but he lay still, his eyes closed,
his lips apart, — in appearance, he was dying.

“Father, father, why do you stay away so long?” she
said. “Come back, — speak to me, — say one word, — call
me once more!”

The dull ear heard not; the hand used to caressing
was still.

Tenderly she smoothed the white beard upon his breast.

“Is Quetzal' angry with me? I love him. Tell him how
lonely I am, and that the birds are not enough to keep me
happy when you stay so long; tell him how dear you are
to me. Ask him to let you come back now.”

Yet no answer.

“O Quetzal', fair, beautiful god! hear me,” she continued.
“Your finger is on his lips, or he would speak.
Your veil is over his eyes, or he would see me. I am his
child, and love him so much; and he is hungry, and here
are bread and meat. Let him come for a little while, and I
will love you more than ever.”

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And so she prayed and promised, but in vain. Quetzal'
was obdurate. With tears fast flowing, she arose, and stood
by the couch, and gazed upon the face now sadly changed
by the long abstinence. And as she looked, there came upon
her own face a new expression, that which the very young
always have when at the side of the dying, — half dread,
half curiosity, — wonder at the manifestation, awe of the
power that invokes it, — the look we can imagine on the
countenance of a simple soul in the presence of Death interpreting
himself.

At last she turned away, and went to the door. Twice
she hesitated, and looked back. Wherefore? Was she pondering
the mystery of the deep sleep, or expecting the
sleeper to awake, or listening to the whisper of a premonition
fainter in her ears than the voice of the faintest
breeze? She went on, nevertheless; she reached the door,
and drew the curtain; and there, in the full light, was
Orteguilla.

That we may judge the impression, let us recall what kind
of youth the page was. I never saw him myself, but those
who knew him well have told me he was a handsome fellow;
tall, graceful, and in manner and feature essentially
Spanish. He wore at the time the bonnet and jaunty
feather, and the purple mantle, of which I have spoken, and
under that a close black jerkin, with hose to correspond; half-boots,
usual to the period, and a crimson sash about the
waist, its fringed ends hanging down the left side, completed
his attire. Altogether, a goodly young man; not as gay,
probably, as some then loitering amongst the alamedas of
Seville; for rough service long continued had tarnished his
finery and abused his complexion, to say nothing of the imprints
of present suffering; yet he was enough so to excite
admiration in eyes older than Tecetl's, and more familiar
with the race.

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The two gazed at each other, wonder-struck.

“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Orteguilla, the bread in his
hand. “Into what world have I been brought? Is this a
spirit thou hast sent me?”

In his eyes, she was an angel; in hers, he was more. She
went to him, and knelt, and said, “Quetzal', dear Quetzal',—
beautiful god! You are come to bring my father back to
me. He is asleep by the fountain.”

In her eyes, the page was a god.

The paba's descriptions of Quetzal' had given her the ideal
of a youth like Orteguilla. Of late, moreover, he had been
constantly expected from Tlapallan, his isle of the blest;
indeed, he had come, — so the father said. And the house
was his. Whither would he go, if not there? So, from
tradition oft repeated, from descriptions colored by passionate
love, she knew the god; and as to the man, — between the
image and his maker there is a likeness; so saith a book
holier than the teoamoxtli.

The page, as we have seen, was witty and shrewd, and
acquainted well with the world; his first impression went
quickly; her voice assured him that he was not come to any
spirit land. The pangs of hunger, for the moment forgotten,
returned, and I am sorry to say that he at once yielded to
their urgency, and began to eat as heroes in romances never
do. When the edge of his appetite was dulled, and he could
think of something else, an impulse of courtesy moved him,
and he said, —

“I crave thy pardon, fair mistress. I have been so much
an animal as to forget that this food is thine, and required
to subsist thee, and, perhaps, some other inhabiting here.
I admit, moreover, that ordinarily the invitation should
proceed from the owner of the feast; but claim thy own,
and partake with me; else it may befall that in my great
hunger thy share will be wanting. Fall to, I pray thee.”

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Still kneeling, she stared at him, and, folding her hands
upon her breast, replied, “Quetzal' knows that I am his servant.
Let him speak so that I may understand.”

“Por cierto! — it is true! What knoweth she of my
mother tongue?”

And thereupon, in the Aztecan, he asked her to help herself.

“No,” said she. “The house and all belong to you. I
am glad you have come.”

“Mine? Whom do you take me for?”

“The good god of my father, to whom I say all my
prayers, — Quetzal'!”

“Quetzal', Quetzal'!” he repeated, looking steadily in her
face; then, as if assured that he understood her, he took one
of the goblets of chocolate, and tried to drink, but failed;
the liquid had been beaten into foam.

“In the world I come from, good girl,” he said, replacing
the cup, “people find need of water, which, just now, would
be sweeter to my tongue than all the honey in the valley.
Canst thou give me a drink?”

She arose, and answered eagerly, “Yes, at the fountain.
Let us go. By this time my father is awake.”

“So, so!” he said to himself. “Her father, indeed! I
have eaten his supper or dinner, according to the time of
day outside, and he may not be as civil as his daughter. I
will first know something about him.” And he asked,
“Your father is old, is he not?”

“His beard and hair are very white. They have always
been so.”

Again he looked at her doubtingly. “Always, said you?”

“Always.”

“Is he a priest?”

She smiled, and asked, “Does not Quetzal' know his own
servant?”

“Has he company?”

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